It didn’t look like I expected.

It never really does.

Each time it’s a different picture, lit in a different light, cast in a different shadow.

And yet similar. In some ways.

And after miles of sleeping.

Hours of quiet.

Mountains of unknowing, unaware, unaffected peace.

There’s this.

And even though the picture is similar.

And the ceiling looks the same.

And the same sun rises as always,

it’s different.

Because I look with new eyes.

Even if I see with yesterday’s.